DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #45 - ask

'Sean... that's one fine non Dyna'. I speak, as I point at a far better looking, Moto Guzzi V7 California ridden by a guy who's safely geared up to take a bike on the highway. Now that's some proper attire, and now that's a motorcycle, not a cheap looking toy with S&S pipes and a cylindrical engine. The rider revs the engine, the sound warms my cockles for how good it is, I knock on the window glass to grab his attention ... and give the guy the biker greeting, while I'm at it. Except that he's riding, and I ain't, even though I so wish I were. And for once, I'm really, fucking talking about motorcycles.

The guy reciprocates the biker greeting, and I look at the side plates of his gas tank with drool at the sides of my mouth. Here in the US, you don't see a Moto Guzzi everyday. But when you see it... it's always a heavenly sight to behold. I turn to my loverboy, to see that he's giving the rider guy the Marie Antoniette guillotine warning, while he's trying to peel up the visor of his helmet. Probably because he wants to show me that he's got a decent looking face, apart from a decent looking bike. But man, I couldn't care any less. I am all cuddled up with the man of each and every one of my romantic novel fantasies, what the hell does that road fucker want from me ? He could as well be Marlon Brando's doppelgänger, and I'd just shrug n' look at my man instead. Cause I love him, and he's got everything a hundred times better. Except the Harley-Davidson Dyna Glide.

'She's pretty ... but god damn if you're a doll. Good 7PM morning, baby'. He speaks, his eyes flipping from the pristine white, made in Italy beauty, to me... the not very pristine, not very white, not made in Italy at all, not even beauty, blissfully laying with her head on his chest. He's just fucking called me a doll, told me I'm prettier than a breathtakingly gorgeous Moto Guzzi V7 California, he's just wished me a good 7PM morning, n' called me baby... and I am legit turning into a puddle in his arms.
The only thing I can do here is revert to silent, exception made for a bunch of whines and cackles, and let my hand trail up and down his chest. He kisses my forehead while I do the lovesick idiot, and I think that I may as well still be half asleep n dreaming. But I ain't... because I can move, and I can feel.

'Sorry... sorry for earlier. I never wanted to have secrets with you'. I speak, staring at the free road ahead of us, twilight at the horizon, road signs giving us the hint that we're straight out of Salt Lake City now. This feels low-key melancholic, low-key ridiculous. Y'know... it feels kinda ridiculous to apologise to him, my blatant, romantic interest, for having had secrets with him involving my job in the porn industry. Secrets that would've stayed as secrets for only god knows how longer, if Cuntrell didn't do the cunt and didn't kindly bring up about the one time that the entire Phellus in Chains gathered and wanked to my homemade VHS tape with Demri.

Sean and I have talked about all kinds of stuff ...and nothing, at the same time. We get lost in our conversations, we talk talk talk, and hours go by like they're seconds. I know how many times he hits the loo everyday, I know how many times he snorts Fentanyl or gets kicked out of places for being drunk as a skunk. I know he is a die hard drinker and a low profile substance addict. I know which drumsticks and drum heads he uses, because even if I don't know shit about drums, he talks about drums to me and I find it fucking cute... and for some reason I don't know, I know his mother and his sister's name and what they do for a living. He's an open book, but at the same time, he's a little bit mysterious and secretive. Same goes with me. I've spent whole days' worth of talking to him, but I don't remember having ever told him stuff such as what I do for a living, what I study at the university, and not even how old I am, and where I hail from. He's never asked anything too personal. I've never asked him anything too personal either. We don't ask, we just talk, and stuff pops out at any given time, with no prior notice.

Getting to know eachother better feels like opening a Matrioshka. But we'll call it a box, because he's the Man With the Box. You've got this big box in your hands, but it contains several smaller ones of 'em. And you keep opening them, one after one, slowly... until you get to the tiniest box, aka the one in the core. I still haven't opened Sean's core box. He still hasn't opened mine. He's tackled it, a few times, once with the help of his pissy blonde bandmate ... but opened it, not quite yet. It's gonna take a while until we get there, and man, if we keep going at this slow tempo, it's gonna take me ten years to tell him that I'm nineteen.